


Rein

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Hand & Finger Kink, Handcuffs, M/M, Starfleet Academy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 21:43:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8639296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Chekov still needs a few lessons in restraint.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littlenymphets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlenymphets/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for tombcrawler’s “D/s dynamics Spock/chekov? perhaps a little hand kink?” and “set at the academy where spock's a professor and chekov is his pupil. Sinning ensues” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

His class runs late, and he’s breathless for it—Professor Spock doesn’t take kindly to excuses. Pavel only garners a few stares as he jogs down the corridors; he has a reputation for excitement, for eagerness, and that’s part of what earned him his destination. The other part is relentless determination and a fair helping of intellect. Now that he’s finally got the relationship he wants, he doesn’t want to lose it over something as silly as Professor Scott lecturing right past the bell. 

When he makes it there, his fingers fly across the keypad, neck swiveling to check down either end of the hall—it’s empty: no witnesses. He’s of age, not _that_ much younger than Professor Spock, and he’s not in any of Spock’s classes any longer, but it still wouldn’t be prudent to get caught. He’s relieved when the doors slide open to reveal empty quarters. 

He made it first. He’s supposed to: Spock’s time is valuable and can’t be spent excessively in his quarters, wasted on preparation. Pavel peels his red jacket off his shoulders as he crosses the living space, taking his shirt with it by the bedroom, but he’s careful not to discard his clothes just anywhere. Order is key. He folds both garments neatly on the bedside table and kicks off his shoes to rest beside it, then shimmies right out of his pants. The first time, he didn’t have underwear to join them, but Spock told him that wasn’t attractive but unsanitary, and now he knows better. The last of his clothing is perfectly stacked. The temperature here is set for Vulcan-hot, and the air’s pleasantly warm against Pavel’s bare skin. 

He isn’t particularly self-conscious, at least, not in private, but he still doesn’t linger out in the open. The seat meant for him is in the washroom, where they can easier clean up afterwards. It’s Spock’s idea; he’d prefer the bedroom. But he knows better than to argue with a professor and certainly wouldn’t with a Vulcan that took so very much effort to seduce. 

The plastic chair is right where it always is. Pavel drags it away from the tile wall, right into the center of the washroom, at right angles from the walls. Then he gingerly sits down, facing the door, and lets his arms fall behind him. The familiar metal device is still attached to the back: a thick pair of handcuffs. At some point, Pavel hopes to lose them, but he’s yet to earn that—yet to show he has enough _control_ to warrant freedom. Spock says he’s too young, too eager, to be let loose on a Vulcan lover. But Pavel knows it isn’t that—he just _wants_ Spock far too much, and his uncontrolled lust and reaching hands—especially those searching hands—don’t do Spock much good either. The touch-telepathy flares when they’re intimate, and Spock enjoys, perhaps too much, what Pavel can do with his hands. 

So Pavel holds them back and lets the automatic cuffs close deftly around them. They aren’t too tight, a little cold but not wholly uncomfortable, and he adjusts his position accordingly, back pulled taut. He’s still breathing hard from running and knows he needs to stop, but the anticipation isn’t helping. Spock should be here soon. 

Sure enough, only three minutes pass on the digital clock beside the sink before Pavel hears footsteps on the other side of the door. Another four pass—likely Spock attending to other things—and then the door whisks aside, and Pavel straightens. Spock is still fully dressed, like he always is, but he still looks ridiculously good in his grey ground uniform. His smoothly trimmed hair glistens in the artificial lighting that came on for Pavel’s entrance, his dark eyes and slanted eyebrows not moving in the slightest at the sight before him. His bow lips don’t part. He stares, for one more minute, at Pavel’s face, not even the rest of Pavel’s naked body, completely on display. Then he steps forward, the door clicking shut behind him. 

Pavel says nothing, either—it’s not his place. Ideally, he’ll speak only if spoken to. He knows he wouldn’t make a very good sub on Vulcan. He still finds it thrilling to try. If he hadn’t tried, he wouldn’t even know such a role existed with such strict people. But aliens are always full of surprises, and Spock shows Pavel new things every day. Spock comes in to stroll idly around the chair, and Pavel obediently remains facing forward. 

Then the first touch comes. A warm hand lands on his shoulder, long fingers spreading out against his flesh, and Pavel’s breath hitches. He can feel the familiar spark of _something_ , some connection he doesn’t understand. Spock’s touch is always tantalizing. Spock slowly traces his thumb along the line of Pavel’s collarbone, pausing only to press into the middle, palm caressing between Pavel’s breasts. He arches forward before he can stop himself. Spock’s _sinfully good_ with his hands. 

Spock often uses only them, but they’re enough. The second hands falls on Pavel’s other shoulder. It slips down the way of the first, until both are spreading out across his chest, and Spock’s blunt fingertips dig in to squeeze. Pavel’s teeth grit together—Spock squeezes him again, and he hisses. Spock kneads his flat chest with expert skill, and Pavel leans into it as much as he can. His nipples grow quickly hard against Spock’s palms, chafed worse by every new action. Spock teases him until his skin is flushed red from navel to neck, but Pavel bites his lip and still says nothing. He’s learned, at least, to surrender to Spock’s pace. 

Finally, Spock finishes, honing in instead on the little buds in the center. These Spock flicks over, before taking between his thumb and forefinger and tugging forward. Pavel grunts and goes where he’s pulled, though the cuffs only let him get so far. Spock rolls them in little circles, pinches them, and then a sudden pull breaks Pavel’s resolve—he whines, head tossing back. He can feel Spock against him but doesn’t dare look up, just shuts his eyes. When Spock goes lower, he has to lean forward, his even breath ghosting over Pavel’s cheek. Spock slides all ten digits down Pavel’s stomach, _almost_ reaches his cock, then torturously rises up again. Pavel whimpers and bites the inside of his lip to shut himself up. One of Spock’s hands wraps around his neck, just over his throat, and the other rises up to caress Pavel’s cheek. One thumb smoothes over his lips, closely tracing the shape, and then pokes into the middle. Pavel subserviently opens his mouth.

Spock’s thumb press inside. Pavel’s instincts scream to close around it, to suck for all he’s worth, and beg Spock to replace it with his thick cock, but Pavel knows better. Pleading rarely gets him anywhere, besides disapproving looks and delays until their next session. He forces himself to keep his mouth slack and lets Spock do as he will. Spock weighs down Pavel’s tongue and strokes it a few times, then traces each row of teeth, then slides along his walls, right into the very back of his throat. Pavel pushes not to choke. Perhaps this _is_ training. He thought it was that, at first: solely Spock teaching him how to be good for his teacher. But now he half thinks Spock just likes to _feel_ Pavel up like this, and Pavel can’t say he minds the thorough exploration of Spock’s exquisite hands. 

When the thumb finally withdraws, it drags saliva with it, and Pavel closes his mouth again. Spock runs both sets back down to Pavel’s breast and _finally_ talks, purring just over Pavel’s ear, “You are hard, Mr. Chekov.”

For this, Pavel knows he’s permitted to breathe, “Yes, Sir.” It doesn’t take much with him. He was ashamed, the first time, when he thickened immediately and came ridiculously fast. But he’s young, he’s _human_ , and Spock’s hands are irresistible. He’s inexplicably _warm_ everywhere they touch. Spock says nothing more beyond the statement, just takes a slow route back down Pavel’s body to smooth along the jut of his hips. Spock’s head is forced to lean over Pavel’s shoulder enough for Pavel to see Spock’s handsome face in his peripherals. It doesn’t help.

Spock’s thumbs rifle gently through the honey-coloured curls above Pavel’s shaft. His cock twitches, his legs part slightly wider. He tries to focus on the cold tile against the soles of his feet to hold himself back, but then Spock scrapes his dull nails down Pavel’s inner thighs, and it’s all he can do not to scream. He still feels the ephemeral specter of Spock’s Vulcan telepathy. It makes everything so much _hotter_. He can feel _Spock_. The touch is dizzying. Spock draws his hands just under Pavel’s cock, knuckles brushing his balls, and he moans and fights not to buck forward. His hips are tense, his cock jutting up. He _needs_ Spock’s hands there. 

But they slide away, back along the lines of his thighs, around his hips, smoothing, over and over, up and down his sensitive skin. 

He’s losing it again and licks his lips, then mutters shamefully, “Permission to speak, Sir?”

To his lust-clouded surprise, Spock grants, “You may.”

So Pavel asks, doing his absolute best to make it sound a proper question and not a desperate plea, “Can we do this without the handcuffs?”

Spock makes a thoughtful noise like clucking his tongue. Then he slips directly onto Pavel’s cock, both sets of slender fingers intertwining to cup it fully, and Pavel cries out, balls tightening. When Spock touches him _like that_ , right there, the wild aphrodisiac of their connection seeping right into his veins, it’s all he can do to keep himself together. He tenses, fighting it, but Spock, bent over Pavel with both arms around his shoulders, turns to press a tender, feather-soft, barely their kiss to Pavel’s cheek. Spock pumps his hands once, and Pavel’s gone.

He arches up and spurts right across the floor, hips leaping into Spock’s hands, and Spock tightens his grip and pumps Pavel through it, milks him through the rush of a delicious orgasm. Even restrained and barely used, Pavel’s peak is high. He’s awash in a white bliss, reeling through stifling heat and weightlessness, until he’s spent every last drop and comes slowly crashing down. 

He slumps back in the chair, panting. Spock withdraws his wicked hands. 

Spock announces, “No, not yet,” and Pavel understands. He hears Spock punch the release code into the cuffs, and they spring open. Then footsteps are strolling away, the door opens to accommodate, and Professor Spock is off again to do whatever ingenious things he does when Pavel isn’t pestering him for pleasure.

Pavel lounges in the chair a while longer. Then he slinks back to Spock’s bedroom and curls up under the sheets, where he’s allowed to rest until the morning comes.


End file.
